


Exit Polling

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: You can have ambition or love, but you can’t have both.---a political au: magnus is a political fixer, and alec is the poor fool hoping to be mayor.





	1. Register to Vote

**Author's Note:**

> what do i know about american politics? nothing. what do i know about writing? nothing. yet, i persist in faking my way through both! please excuse everything i get wrong as artistic license. ;_;

 

 

  
Probably the most bizarre incident that Magnus can recall is the time a fuzzy video of a prominent US Senator surfaced with the Senator bragging about his “magic” third nipple to a bored prostitute lounging on a truly vomit-inducing coverlet in a seedy motel room.

To wit: American politics are weird, have always been weird, and with the invention of tiny handheld devices that can stealthily record and snap photos of high people in low places, they’re only getting weirder.

It’s a good time to be a bad man like him, Magnus thinks.

Whenever political photos on the campaign trail are taken and posted anywhere, they always crop him out of the photo. There’s the loving spouse, the campaign manager, a local farmer, teacher, firefighter, or any number of respectable locals, then there’s Magnus standing thirty feet away, furiously texting on his iPhone. No one wants to be associated with him, but everyone needs him. It might be the dubious nature of his job, or the way he dresses -- he doesn't know and doesn't much care. Ragnor, his longtime bitter rival and arch-nemesis, says he dresses like a mix between a Bond villain and a pimp. Magnus adjusts the heavy onyx ring on his pointer finger to better text. Ragnor may have a point.

Magnus’ name is whispered in backrooms like a curse; his card is passed around and tucked discreetly in the breast pockets of suits that cost ten grand and are still, somehow, criminally ugly.

He’s a political fixer of the worst kind, has files on everyone from California to New York. He’s who you call when you wake up from a three-day bender with a hooker in your bathtub. He basically lives in the seedy underbelly of politics, has permanently curled up in the gutter and declared it his Home Sweet Home. There are above-board fixers; he's not one of them.

So no one wants to do a photo op with him or anything, big deal. Some people believe that the further you stand from the center of a photo, the less powerful you are, but Magnus disagrees. He rarely even scores a legitimate invitation, and no one outside of the usual Washington circles knows his name, but he is usually the most powerful man in the room. The true test of power is deciding exactly how and when to wield it.

The campaign for Mayor is heating up, and there’s a hotshot newcomer everyone’s talking about. Word is his parents, big names in renewable energy, are financing his entire run. It’s a powerful thing not to be beholden to benefactors.

Magnus enlarges the official photo critically. Classically handsome face, strangely expressive eyebrows. Nice.

His parents contacted Magnus a week ago to set an appointment to keep him on retainer. Magnus has to admit he’s curious what kind of skeletons this pretty boy Justin Trudeau knock-off can possibly have in his shallow closet. Working furiously, Magnus had pulled up any files he could get his hands on: old school records, his college essays to Georgetown, hell, Lightwood’s pediatric dental record. He now knows that Alec chipped a tooth playing soccer in the fifth grade.

But he still does not know much about Alexander Lightwood himself. He is frustratingly opaque. It’s a mystery and one that Magnus has no intention of turning down the chance to unravel.

Magnus fires off a quick text to let them know he’ll be in their office in two hours and puts his phone on silent, turning his attention back to the speech at hand.

  
\---

 

When he gets to the Campaign Headquarters, it’s buzzing with volunteers answering phones and Xeroxing fliers, all wearing tiny pins that read, “Lightwood! A Brighter Future for All!”

Honestly, Magnus loves this, the heady buzz of excitement, the sharp tang of printer ink in the air. When people ask him why he does this, he always shrugs and tells them it’s for the money or because it’s the only thing he’s truly good at, which are both nominally true, but really, he just can’t get enough of the excitement.

Maryse Lightwood is sitting in the back conference room at a long white table, typing on an open laptop, legs crossed at the knees. She's sleek and well-bred like everything else in the room, inscrutable and cool. She would be a terrifying mother to have, Magnus imagines, but a fantastic campaign manager.

“Mrs. Lightwood,” Magnus says, reaching for her hand.

She continues typing, barely a flick of her eyes to indicate she’s even aware of his presence. After an excruciatingly awkward few minutes, she hits send and snaps her laptop closed. She remains seated, hands steepled beneath her chin. “Mr. Bane,” she says, a slight twist of displeasure to her mouth as if she finds even his name distasteful.

It’s fine; he’s used to casual disrespect. It comes with the territory. He spends all of his time around people who think he’s somehow beneath him, who avoid his eyes, who pretend not to know him at parties--until they need his services.

Magnus takes a seat opposite her and sets his files down on the table. “I hear you’re in need of a fixer.”

“Not so much right now, no, but we might need…your services down the road.” She pulls air in between her front teeth like a hiss and grimaces at whatever unsavory detail she’s imagining.

“Do you care to elaborate?”

Instead of answering, she leans down and pulls an envelope out of her purse and slides it over the glossy table. “Your usual fee, I’m told, plus a generous bonus for exclusivity.”

“I can’t help you if you’re unwilling to work with me.”

“Earn your money,” she says.

Magnus looks down and pulls the check out of the envelope, notes the two extra zeros. Well, fine. This is some real fuck you money. It’s not the first time he’s felt a little dirty pocketing a check routed through several shell companies, but it still makes a small amount of regret pool in his belly and simmer there. Tightening laws on campaign financials are leaving less and less room for unsavory folks like him to slip around. He knows he’ll never be out of a job -- as sure as politicians breathe, they fuck up and do disgusting things they need to hide from the general public -- but his time of tenuous legitimacy is drawing to a close.

But he's never said no a big payday, even when he should have. He’s officially unofficially on the payroll, then.

“You can set up in one of the back offices. I’ll have Isabelle show you the way,” Maryse says and opens her laptop back up, clearly dismissing him.

Magnus pushes back from the desk and heads to the door where a young woman meets him. She’s slim, dark-eyed and lovely, and Magnus recognizes her easily from his earlier research. “Follow me, Mr. Bane,” she says, leading him through a short corridor to a stuffy room with a rolling chair, a tiny desk, and for maximum absurdity, a potted plant.

“There aren't even any windows,” Magnus says nonsensically.

“It’s plastic,” Isabelle points out. “It was Clary’s idea.”

Magnus doesn’t know who this Clary is, but she seems sweet and a little foolish. He sets his files and briefcase on the desk, which groans awkwardly under the weight.

“Can I get you anything, Mr.--”

“Just--Magnus. Magnus is fine.”

“Then I’m Izzy,” she says. “Do you want some coffee?”

“You do that around here?”

“No,” she says with a slight grin, “but I’ll be glad to point you in the right direction.”

She's got some bite. Magnus likes her a fair bit already. “I’m good.”

“I’m right down the hall if you need me,” she says before closing the door behind her.

Magnus does not strictly need an office space to work, at least not yet, but it’s fine. It’ll do. He needs space for a laptop, a place to spread out his notes, and wi-fi. He has worked from a car, in a terrible motel that smelled like old chimichangas and stale cigarette smoke, and on one particularly frightening night, behind a dumpster at a 7-11.

He opens his laptop and starts reading through files and taking notes on an old yellow legal pad when anything relevant comes up. After a while, he wanders out, hoping to find a projector. All of these campaign places have them. A pert redhead points him towards one, and he carries it into his office and plugs it into his laptop. He has about thirty interviews queued up, new and old, from Lightwood’s junior varsity days to his campaign for Comptroller.

He’s not due to meet Alec until the following Monday, so he spends his time getting to know Alec the old-fashioned way: creepy internet stalking.

Magnus loves watching interviews on projectors. He can see facial ticks, spot the tells when they’re lying. So he stares at Alec’s face, six feet tall and larger than life. He lets the words wash over him, watches the way Alec’s eyes widen and narrow, fringed by lush black, as he talks. He looks for the tiny imperfection in the front tooth that he knows is there but can’t see it. Alec, handsome and sweaty after a championship varsity basketball match; Alec, graduating Summa Cum Laude from Georgetown; Alec, giving a speech at the beginning of his political career, stuttering and overly-earnest. He watches them over and over, studying each detail, but coming back to his eyes, always. The videos come to an abrupt halt, leaving nothing but a patch of bright white on the wall with a circular arrow.

Magnus sits back in his chair and exhales.

Just when he’s getting antsy, he grabs his coat, pats the pocket and slips out the back door. While he was inside, it started raining and he stands under the tiny awning miserably trying to avoid getting soaked. The rain pours down around him, turning the world hazy and gray.

He puts a cigarette in his mouth -- his last one, he’s quitting tomorrow -- and lights it. Behind him, the door opens and before he can stub his cigarette out, swear he was just holding it for a buddy, Alec plucks it out between his fingers and takes a small puff. Magnus watches the smoke blow out from between his lips, down and to the right, curling around his nose and jaw before dissipating. He hands it back to Magnus, who takes it wordlessly.

“You must be Magnus Bane.”

So this is Alexander Lightwood. Profiles and Interviews and files did not do him justice. Magnus feels his stomach swoop and drop somewhere into the vicinity of his feet. He’s beautiful. And he dresses like a hobo.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Magnus says instead of answering. He’d pored over Alec’s files and had not seen it mentioned anywhere, had not seen the tell-tale fingers twitching, or an indication of an oral fixation. He can’t help but feel a bit betrayed by his own oversight, though technically, he doesn't smoke, either.

“Surprised the great Magnus Bane?” Alec asks with an ironic lift of his eyebrow. He licks his lips and Magnus watches the path his tongue takes, fascinated.

“I didn’t think the world had any more surprises left for me.” For a moment, Magnus is shocked by his own honesty. He makes it his personal policy to never tell the truth if he can avoid it.

“You’re lucky then.”

“How so?” Magnus asks, cigarette burning down to his fingers, completely forgotten in the face of something far more addicting.

“People always shock the hell out of me,” Alec says as he opens the door. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Bane.”

 

\---

 

Alec comes in every Monday to meet with all of his volunteers. They have conferences about the plan of attack, which neighborhoods to canvass at which time, which ties more suit the lovely hazel of his eyes. Well, the last part is mostly Magnus. During the meetings, he sits tucked in the back corner and watches Alec engage the volunteers, local businessmen, donors. Surprisingly, he treats them all the same slightly reserved warmth.

Magnus takes the opportunity to sit back and observe him in person. He learns that Alec dresses like a dork, is reasonably poised and disgustingly earnest, as he talks quietly with a farmer about Monsanto’s payments to use rivals' pesticides and the future of GMOs.

Oh shit, Magnus thinks. He’s got a true believer on his hands.

There is nothing worse than a politician that truly believes his own rhetoric. Slight racist, deep-rooted misogynist? Talks about the Bible while banging call girls on the side? These are all things Magnus can work with. But he can’t deal with this Gandhi-level Be the Change You Want to See in the World bullshit. Time for some further evaluation to determine exactly how fucked he is.

“Alexander,” he says, laying a hand on Alec’s shoulder. Alec looks up expectantly. Good God, the man is even attractive with both eyebrows comically high on his forehead, mouth downturned. This is awful and the world is going to explode in despair and ruin. “Perhaps you can get the gentlemen’s number and talk with him some later. Right now,” he says, flipping open his dossier, “you’ve got three more meetings on the books.”

The dossier is really just a collection of menus from his favorite takeout spots, but Alec doesn't have to know that.

Alec sends the farmer a regretful smile and stands up to shake his hand. Magnus scrawls the farmer's name, telephone number and email address on a sheet of paper, which he promptly tears out of his memo pad and throws away as soon as he leaves.

“I don’t remember any more meetings,” Alec says, doing up the tortoiseshell buttons on his blue sports coat, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one is dangling by a single thread. It’s dreadful.

“You need to dress like an adult," Magnus says. It’s not necessarily his place to point out, but it’s in his best interest that Alec wins. Basically, Magnus knows way too much boring shit about everything: precincts, voting districts, gerrymandering. He's done it all and covered up even more. It’s his job to have his thumb on the public’s pulse. And Alec Lightwood is tall and handsome, makes Magnus want to do terrible things to him, but he still looks a bit like a homeless Catholic schoolboy. Which has its charms, but it’s an entirely different subset of the population that would find that appealing.

Alec looks down at his rumpled outfit in befuddlement. “What's wrong with the way I dress?”

“Besides everything?” Magnus asks, watching Alec settle behind his desk.

Alec eyes Magnus’ brocade knee-length coat doubtfully. “Not everyone can dress like a fancy matador.”

“With the length of my coat, that insult doesn’t even make sense. Besides, I will not be insulted by a man who wears polyester on purpose. You simply don’t understand fashion, you poor fool.”

It’s possible he’s gone too far in the defense of his sweet personal style, but there are some things that simply cannot be borne.

But Alec just grins slightly, leans back in his chair and crosses his long legs. “So educate me.”

  
\---

 

“You’re doing a Pretty Woman on him?”

Magnus hums. “He’s cute, but he’s no Julia Roberts.”

Catarina’s voice, when it comes, is laced with suspicion. “God, he’s not a hooker, is he? Tell me you haven’t fallen in love with another hooker.”

“She was lonely and tragic and we shared a connection over a love of silent films and modern art.”

“Yeah, one of those things sounds correct.”

“I find everything about this conversation alarming,” Magnus says. “He is not a lady of the night, as it were. He’s the Comptroller of New York City.” He cannot help the small flush of pride when he announces Alec’s title, even though no one particularly knows what it is or respects it at all.

“What’s that? Sounds boring.”

“He’s the Chief Fiscal and Auditing Officer, and -- oh fuck, it _is_ desperately boring.”

“But you’re invested in him, huh?”

“What a hideous pun,” Magnus says and across the line, Catarina laughs. She’s always had a fabulous laugh; she throws her head back and cackles, eyes squinting unattractively, mouth stretched wide. It’s so unlike the polite titters of his usual crowd that Magnus finds he misses her terribly. Nonprofits will never need her as much as he does, despite what the media might say. He could pay her a great deal more, too, but she says she’s not in it for the money, which is a baffling sentiment.

Speaking of baffling: Alexander may have a hideously boring job, but it’s the only boring thing about him. He is cynical and naive, stubborn and accommodating, and undeniably sexy, in an absentminded dotty professor sort of way. Lately, Magnus finds that every time he’s around Alec, he catches a chill, stumbles over words, is struck by the revolting need to not let Alec down, and his pants bunch uncomfortably.

He can’t help it, sincerity makes his ass sweat.

“Well,” Catarina says, “you certainly seem to have everything figured out.” She sounds like she means just the opposite, and Magnus scowls down at his phone. An image of Alec’s campaign pin is the background.

Clearly, he’s not out of control _at all_.

 


	2. AFILIACIÓN DE PARTIDO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just two heterosexual dudes holding hands in the back of a car, nothing to see here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not editing this too much. i tend to finish a fic and then edit, because i don't like to stress overly much when i'm working on the plot. please keep this in mind while reading.

 

  
Monday finds him in Alec’s garish office, watching him repeatedly overturn cushions to find his car keys.

“You had to have had them recently," Magnus points out reasonably, "you drove here.” As a general rule, Magnus does not trust New Yorkers that drive, but Alec lives to defy expectation. 

“Fuck, I know,” Alec mutters. “I should just like, put a chain on them. You remember those wallet chains everyone had in the nineties?”

Magnus winces; he does know. He remembers having one and being convinced of his coolness. It wasn’t cute then, and it’s not cute now. Besides, he cannot imagine the unsightly things it would do to the lines of Alec's new, improved, and much tighter clothes. Not to mention--

Magnus says, “The underwear you’re wearing ruins the lines of your suits.”

“Sorry,” Alec says sarcastically. “I’ll just leave them off next time.”

“You could.”

Alec colors and drops the cushion in his hands. “Uh, no, I couldn’t do--that.”

“It’s easy,” Magnus says. “Just forget to put them on in the morning. You’re always forgetting stuff.”

“Okay, yes, I’ve forgotten a lot of things,” Alec says in this tight, bitchy tone that Magnus just _loves_. “But I have never once forgotten to put on underwear.” He makes a pleased sound, followed by car keys rattling. He throws them in the desk drawer, and Magnus makes a mental note to remember where they are for when Alec can't find them later.

“What a shame,” Magnus says from where he’s lounging in one of the faux-leather deep brown club chairs. For someone who grew up in stunning wealth, Alec seems shockingly clueless about the finer things. It’s like he thinks helping people, hard work, and fiscal responsibility are the most important things in life. The pleather squeaks under his butt unpleasantly. 

Scarred and heavy wooden desk, lightly yellowed walls, partial wood paneling, check and check -- this is pure public servant asshattery. And in the middle of it, is Alec with his shirtsleeves rolled up, baring strong forearms, and leaning across the desk to look at Magnus. His tie is stained, and he’s already scuffed the shoes Magnus picked out for him.

He can feel his toes curl in his $1000 Louboutin balmorals. Oh honestly, Magnus has no shame.

“Aside from the state of my underwear--”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Or prospective lack thereof,” Alec agrees, wincing, “is there anything else you needed me for? This isn’t your job. You don’t have to dress me.”

Magnus files that salacious image away for a rainy day, and says, “Of course not. I just want you to win. It’s in my best interest, and I always do what’s in my best interest.”

“So, nothing personal, huh?”

“Not at all,” Magnus lies.

When he answers, Alec’s expression is infuriatingly opaque, and Magnus reflects that Alec is possibly a far better politician than he ever gave him credit for. “Okay, Mr. Bane. I guess I’ll see you next Monday.”

 

\---

 

Ragnor texts him a photo of a former local Representative doing lines off the ass of what Magnus hopes is an adult woman.

Magnus thanks him, prints off two copies, one of which he overnights to a safety deposit box in California, the other gets carefully stored in New York. He makes an entry in his database and erases all traces of an incoming message. To thank Ragnor, Magnus sends an anonymous magnum of 2002 Dom Perignon Rose to his PO Box, the paranoid fuck.

He cleans his apartment, works out, goes for a run and carefully does not think about Alec.

 

\---

 

The receptionist and security know him by now, and Magnus greets them all by name, handing out donuts and coffee along the way. It never hurts to ingratiate yourself with the staff.

He finds Alec hunched over his desk, chewing at his chapped lips worriedly.

“Magnus!” he says, looking relieved.

“Am I interrupting?” Magnus slides the box of donuts across the desk. He made sure to pick up extra Boston Creams for Alec.

“Yes, please,” Alec groans, grabbing at the donuts. He sits one on a napkin and licks the chocolate off his fingers.

Magnus makes a wounded noise and sits down.

“I’ve been going over the financials to try to figure out how the new tax law will affect our fiscal year. The President’s threatening to cut entitlement programs, so I’m trying to see if the state can carry those programs by itself.”

“Can that be done?” Or better yet, Magnus wants to ask, should it? Alec is making a bid for Mayor; for better or worse, he still needs the top 1%-ers on his side. Tax increases for entitlements are not the way to do that.

“We have over three million immigrants, 21% of New Yorkers live at or below the poverty line. You’re saying we shouldn’t take care of them?”

“No, it’s an admirable sentiment,” Magnus says, frustrated and unable to verbalize exactly why. Alec is the clear frontrunner in this race, and he’s going to throw it away for people that are documented to have poor voter turnout or are unable to vote completely. It’s not that he holds anything against the poor, he just likes winning better.

Magnus massages his temples. “Do you even understand politics?” It comes out harsher than he means it to, but it’s a sentiment worth saying. Alec has to understand the way the world works. You cannot take care of people and expect them to take care of you back. People use you and then throw you away. Magnus could tell him all about it.

Alec fiddles with his donut for a moment, and Magnus kind of regrets where this conversation has headed, so far away from the simple joy of a Boston Cream and Alec’s simple pleasure. That’s all Magnus had really wanted--to make Alec happy.

“I understand that some things are worth fighting for,” he says quietly.

“Wake up, Alexander,” Magnus says, “politics don't work that way.”

“I think it could,” Alec insists. “If we-- if  _I_ try hard enough. Magnus, I think this is what I’m meant to do.”

Alec is not foolish, just an idealist. But what has ever changed without a dream, hope, and a little luck? Magnus is suddenly struck with the very real desire to see the world that Alec envisions.

“It’s stupid,” Alec says, walking around his heavy oak desk, hands tucked in his pockets. His shoes gleam, his pants are crisp, and Magnus can’t fault his styling, but he wishes, just for a moment, for the scuffed loafers and the wrinkled suit back.

“It’s a beautiful, stupid dream,” Magnus says softly. Alec is the Titanic, and Magnus is sadly playing his violin as the cold water licks at his ankles. He is going down with this ship, apparently.

Alec has his head cocked and is looking at him strangely. “It is,” he agrees.

After a moment, Magnus clears his throat and says, "Eat your donut. We're due at the campaign headquarters soon."

"I'll drive," Alec offers, tucking into his food with relish. A small dollop of cream lands on his tie. Alec keeps eating, oblivious.

When he's done, he curses under his breath, looking around. "Now where the fuck did I put my keys?"

Just to be mean, Magnus lets him look for another twenty minutes before telling Alec where they are.

  
\---

 

Magnus goes back to his apartment and frets, anxiety-eats an entire package of Oreos and washes it down with a bottle of antacid.

So his client is basically going to throw the race? This isn’t an issue he’s encountered before, but he’s a problem solver by nature. Not to mention the fact that he’s nearly certain his increasingly inconvenient attraction isn’t entirely one-sided. It’s getting to be a real problem. He takes another swig of his Gaviscon, notes it’s empty and glares at the bottle as if it has gravely disappointed him.

He's figured out what Alec’s mother hired a political fixer for. It’s so obvious now, Magnus isn't sure how he could have missed it. Alec's had a very sporadic dating history, nothing serious or long-term, but Magnus just couldn't see the forest for the trees. He was so preoccupied with his attraction to Alec that he didn't stop to consider it might be mutual. 

Alec's eyes follow Magnus around the room, he stands close when they talk, body leaning in intimately. They are friendly, more than, pulled unwillingly into each other’s orbit. Even the volunteers sometimes mention how close they are, circling each other slowly like the world’s most leisurely and math-filled mating dance.

Oh, he is so screwed. He grabs his coat and trudges to the nearest pharmacy to buy more antacids. He can only hope they sell them by the case.

 

\---

 

There are six months until the primaries and at this point, Magnus is more ulcer than man. He learns more about tax law than he ever thought he would need or desired to know; he’s well acquainted with Alec’s inseam in every banal way imaginable.

For the next two weeks, he and Alec will be stuck together in various cars and work buses, traveling from site to site, giving speeches and meeting with locals.

The morning dawns bright and crisp, sun shining, gorgeous -- and Magnus despises it. He drinks his coffee black and bitter and stares morosely at the bus. Alec comes up behind him, lays a hand on the small of his back. “I can smell change in the air,” he says, sipping some coffee monstrosity with whip cream and sprinkles on top.

“That’s pollution,” Magnus points out.

“Where’s your faith, Magnus?” Alec asks, squinting down at him, sunlight bright behind him like a halo.

Oh fuck, real subtle. Enough with the symbolism, universe. “Come back and ask me at a reasonable hour,” Magnus grunts and gets on the bus, which holds far too many adult bodies to smell good.

Around noon, Alexander’s campaign manager microwaves fish and everyone opens their windows, bitching loudly, the buoyancy from earlier all but dissipated in the harsh reality of giving four speeches, visiting three children’s hospitals, and using a postage stamp sized bathroom at the back of the bus where conversation always lags right when you’re peeing.

It’s a grueling pace, one that Magnus usually relishes, except that Alec keeps leaning over to talk to him, fingers splayed wide over his tie to keep it in place, and that’s it, that’s fucking it--

Magnus slides off his own gold tie clip and grabs ahold of Alec’s shirt, slipping his finger beneath the placket to the warm cotton undershirt, the rabbitting heartbeat beneath that.

“Magnus?” Alec asks, voice hushed and unsure, breath still far too sweet.

Magnus clips his tie in place, lets his hand rest on Alec’s chest for a moment longer and says, “There, now you’re perfect.”

 

  
\---

  
The bells jingle as he opens the door. He doesn’t know why Ragnor always chooses absolute dives to meet up in, the very worst places the city has to offer. A truck driver at the counter is flashing an unappetizing amount of pale ass crack.

“Ugh,” Magnus mutters to himself, sliding into the booth opposite Ragnor.

In front of him, Ragnor has a huge stack of waffles and…chicken, Magnus supposes. He is surrounded by crimes against good taste on all sides, beleaguered and alone. He is Helen of Troy, a prisoner in a foreign city; Odysseus, sailing off into the great unknown to slay monsters -- and, oh, he should probably order food or something. 

“Caught you on the five pm news,” Ragnor says in between bites. He sniffs and leans back, wiping his hands on a flimsy paper napkin. A waitress comes up to take his order and Magnus gets a plate of fries. No one fucks up fries -- they’re just potatoes in cooked in goddamn oil.

“You seemed awfully close to the young Lightwood boy.”

“He’s not that young,” Magnus protests and takes a sip of his tepid water. “He’s thirty.”

“Barely out of diapers,” Ragnor scoffs.

“There are people who’re into that.”

“Don’t be vulgar, it's beneath you.”

“Nothing’s beneath me.”

“Not even your young mayor?” Ragnor says, assessing Magnus with cool eyes.

“Now who’s being vulgar?” Magnus mutters. “Besides, he hasn’t won the election yet.”

“He will,” Ragnor says with the confidence of a man who has spent more than half his life predicting these things. Magnus suspects he’s right; the public is falling in love with Alec. He's been watching the numbers, and his approval rating is soaring, especially among young voters. They’re tired of old boring politicians, they want new blood, excitement, compassion. Alec is going to make one hell of a sexy mayor; he might have to start a fan club and start distributing calendars.

“Yeah, sure,” Magnus says neutrally. The waitress slides a heaping plate of haphazardly stacked fries in front of him, and Magnus watches as one tumbles off onto the floor. He can’t help but notice that they’re marinating in a pile of their own grease. “Why am I here?”

“Can’t I catch up with an old acquaintance?” Ragnor adds entirely too much creamer and sugar into his coffee -- it reminds Magnus of Alec and his silly whipped drinks, and he feels himself grinning at the memory of Alec drinking one and the cream that clung to his lip, his wide eyes as Magnus wiped it off with his thumb. Magnus winces.

“So tell me, old friend, how in love with him are you?”

“We’re not friends, we’re mortal enemies and bitter rivals.”

“My God, man, you really have no clue about anything at all.”

“If we were friends, you would know I don’t believe in love,” Magnus says peevishly, taking a bite of a cold fry. It is awful. French fries _can_ be fucked up.

“You always do this.” Ragnor sighs and drains his coffee. “Be careful with him. He’s got everything to lose and that makes him and everyone he surrounds himself with dangerous.” He stands and slaps a few dollars onto the table. “Don’t ever forget that they use us and we use them right back. We can sleep with them, but we can never afford to love them.”

“I wouldn't be that sloppy,” Magnus insists and makes a face at the plate of fries, pushing it away from him. What he means is, he wouldn't be that sloppy _now_.

Ragnor snorts inelegantly and steals a French fry on his way out. “Yes, so you keep saying.”

  
\---

 

A guy who knows a guy, who's friends with the housekeeper for a very important producer, pulls a few strings and gets Alec a spot on the Daily Show. That's why Magnus always sucks up to the janitors and secretaries. 

He goes with Alec to the taping. It’s a good outlet, but Magnus does worry that he won’t be able to keep up with Trevor Noah’s quick wit. Alec is smart, devastatingly so, but possessing a dry quirky sense of humor that doesn’t always translate well in media. Elections aren’t won in boardrooms anymore; the true battles are on TV and Twitter, often pandering to the lowest common denominator.

He shouldn’t have worried. The Daily Show has gone full-on leftist bleeding hearts, and they eat up Alec’s wide-eyed honesty with spoons. Most people are so predictable.

But if that’s true, then how the hell does Alec keep surprising him?

Afterward, they get a cab. “You did well,” Magnus says giving Alec’s arm a friendly pat. Alec looks down in confusion.

Alec opens his mouth, likely to point out that he’s a very important Comptroller, whatever the fuck that is and can totally handle pressure.

Magnus cuts him off before they can retread that long, excruciatingly dull road again. “Very nearly great.”

“Nearly great?”

“Relax, that’s a good thing.”

Alec looks like he‘s regretting asking even as the words are leaving his mouth, but says, “How can falling short of greatness be a good thing?”

“Flawless people are boring.” Magnus flashes him a tight smile. Now that he has Alec’s full measure, he knows what to do. After all, it’s what he’s being paid for. “We need to make you accessible, likable, imperfect in an endearing way.”

“I just want to do a good job,” Alec says stubbornly.

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Alec asks, sounding frustrated. “And are you wearing an _ascot_?”

“Do that thing where you try to pretend to be a Boy Scout. You’re a politician. I’m on your payroll; you don’t have to lie to me.”

Alec looks down and picks at a loose thread on his dark gray slacks. He looks so devasting in a three-piece suit. Magnus should know; Alec's wrecked him more a few times. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks quietly.

Just like that, Magnus feels all the wind go out of his rage-sails. “No, of course not.” Without letting himself think about it too much, he grabs Alec’s hand and holds it. Alec looks down at their linked hands in surprise with a pleased quirk to his lips.

Yeah, just two heterosexual dudes holding hands in the back of a car, nothing to see here. Magnus watches the city fly by in a dizzying wash of color.

“How’d my suit look on camera?” Alec asks, thumb rubbing small circles on the back of Magnus’ hand.

“Hmm? Great, fantastic slim cut. Vests should definitely be your thing. You need a thing.”

“Nothing to ruin the lines?”

“What?” Magnus asks, turning away from the window to stare at Alec. His eyes automatically drop down to Alec’s crotch. No unsightly bunching -- Magnus’ mouth goes dry like he’s been eating cotton with a lovely sandpaper chaser.

Alec shrugs. “It was your suggestion.”

That’s fair. But in Magnus’ defense, at no time did he actually think Alec would take him up on his suggestion. Oh, dear God, he’s sitting in close quarters with a man who makes him all stupid, a man who just confirmed he’s not wearing underwear, and they're holding hands because Magnus has lost his damn _mind_.

“Do you have somewhere you want to be dropped off?” Alec's hand tightens around his.

All of a sudden, Magnus is acutely aware that if they go to his apartment, they are most definitely going to fuck. The air is charged, dangerous.

Magnus has a split-second to make up his mind, and no one has ever accused him of being cautious or prudent. It feels like a good night to make poor choices.

He leans forward and gives the cabbie his address.

 

 

 


	3. 유권자 등록

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems like there’s plenty of blame to go around. There always is.

 

 

At his apartment, Alec takes a cursory look around. “Nice, uh, window things. Fancy.”

“Curtains? Are you complimenting my curtains?”

“Yeah, they’re really something.”

“So are you,” Magnus says and kisses him, tentative and soft, until Alec leans into him, wraps his arms around him.

Magnus unknots his tie, fingers sliding over the silk. Then they’re undressing, dropping clothes on their way to the bedroom. 

Alec stumbles against the edge of the bed, falls down in a messy sprawl. His hair, normally parted at the side and neatly combed, is an absolute mess. His bare chest, with a tantalizing thatch of dark hair, is flushed pink.

“My God,” Magnus says, quietly stunned. He grabs one of Alec’s legs and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee. “They’re like a supermodel's legs,” he says, delighted.

“Shut up," Alec says, embarrassed. "They're long and skinny. I can’t help it.”

“They’re great.”

“Well, they do the job and cart my ass around from place to place,” Alec says.

“And what a fantastic ass it is.”

At that, Alec goes quiet, hesitant. “It’s, uh. You know. I’ve fooled around, but--”

Magnus sits back and swallows loudly. “You’re a virgin?”

“No, if you’d fucking let me finish--”

“Sorry, Sorry,” Magnus says, holding up his hands, though his fingers itch to get back to Alec’s legs and examine them from every angle.

“It’s just -- there was someone a long time ago, but it kind of fizzled out and since then, I haven’t had much opportunity to, ah.” Alec makes a frighteningly vigorous motion with his hands that Magnus couldn’t hazard a guess at. Sex? Twister? An unusually robust game of Jenga?

“Nothing has to happen tonight.”

“No,” Alec’s quick to clarify. “You have no clue how much I want this.” He leans forward, mouths at Magnus’ neck, murmurs, “I’ve thought about this for so long.”

“How long? Be honest, was it from the first moment you saw me?” He bets it was from the first moment Alec saw him.

“You mean when you were crouched under an awning like a drowned rat and badly pretending not to smoke?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t then.”

Magnus laughs. “All right, smartass. When was it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“How romantic,” Magnus says dryly. “A real story for the ages.”

“No, I met you," Alec says, his eyes sliding away and resting somewhere over Magnus' left shoulder. "We got along, and I told you what I saw for my future, and somewhere along the way you became part of that future.”

“Well. That’s really.” Magnus surges forward and kisses him.

So Magnus takes his time, opening up Alec gently until he's squirming around his fingers and pressing back, the sheets an absolute sticky mess around them. He wants to make this so good for Alec. He kisses both of Alec’s knees again because Alec makes him gross and sappy, and he’s a little obsessed.

“If you use any more lube, you’re just going to bounce right off my ass,” Alec complains.

“You’re nothing but pure poetry,” Magnus says. And he is. Alec’s long, lean body and pale skin stretched out beneath him is shockingly lovely against the red sheets.

He’d bought the sheets a few months ago, fingering the high thread count and wondering if the color was a bit too Communist. Looking at Alec now, he thinks they were worth every penny.

Magnus leans down, kisses Alec, mouth soft and open against his, and feels something -- always hungry and never quite satisfied -- settle there and quiet down.

He lets the world fall away from him, the worry about the campaign, the knowledge that he’s another secret for Alec to keep. He could be sorry, almost, for adding one more burden to Alec’s over-strained shoulders, but he thinks Alec needs this, too.

Magnus slips a condom on, slicks himself up and presses in, agonizingly slowly, while beneath him, Alec begs, “Faster, more, more,” hands gripped tight on his shoulders.

Magnus looks down at Alec, cracked open and spilling out, lips bitten red, eyes entirely too tender, and for a moment, Magnus has to look away. His hips stutter as he collects himself, then he speeds up, adjusting slightly as Alec cries out, fingers digging into the meat of Alec’s thigh, the mattress rocking gently beneath them.

Alec groans, face screwed up in pleasure, as he clenches around Magnus, impossibly tight and hot, and shoots all over his own stomach. Magnus keeps going until he’s coming too, shaking and stunned.

“Alexander, Alexander,” he says over and over, peppering kisses over Alec's damp skin, trying to let go of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and very nearly succeeding.

  
\---

 

Afterward, with Alec curled up against his side, uncomfortably warm and all sharp elbows, Magnus asks, “Why haven’t you come out before? You don’t have to tell me, but I’d like to know.”

“Are you asking as my fixer or--”

“Why not both?” Alec shifts again and another sharp elbow jabs him in the ribs, which is terrifying because, by Magnus’ count, that’s at least four elbows. Magnus winces and discreetly rubs his side.

“I mean, I always knew I’d go into politics, but there was someone a long time ago that I thought would--never mind. He didn’t want me, not the same way. I guess I figured I could never have what I wanted, so I just stopped looking.”

“You were okay with being lonely for the rest of your life?”

“You’d be surprised what you can get used to.”

What a pity, Magnus thinks, tracing a finger up Alec’s stomach just to watch the muscles there tense and knot beneath his touch. He knows the feeling well.

“And what about you?” Alec asks. “How did you become a fixer?”

Magnus hesitates. It’s a history very few people know: namely Catarina and Ragnor, only one of whom he trusts with the information. “I graduated from college and got a job as a White House Correspondent.”

Alec pulls back to look at him. “You started as a journalist?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“What happened to journalistic integrity?”

“What ever happens? Got disillusioned, met a girl, things kind of spiraled from there.”

“Must have been a hell of a girl.”

“She was.” He met eyes with Camille across the room and had instantly known that she would change his life. The same couldn’t be said for Alec, though. He was so unexpected, so out of left field, that Magnus never even saw him coming.

Magnus continues, “She was married - unhappily, I thought - and had plans to leave her husband. We ended up having an affair, and then her husband decided to run for Senate. And that was more exciting than a low-level fixer with a reputation as that guy who flamed out as a correspondent after six months.”

“I’m sorry,” Alec says.

“What? Why? I’m the one that fucked up.”

“Seems like there’s plenty of blame to go around. There always is.”

“Later, she came to me, begged me to keep my mouth shut, and I still loved her, so I did.”

Actually, he did more than that. He ended up in the bizarre predicament of having to “fix” himself. He shredded any evidence they had been together, erased their phone history, and stole security tapes. It was the first time he’d ever deliberately broken the law, but it wasn't the last.

She’d shattered his heart, true, but he’d done the rest.

“It sounds like you meant to do good,” Alec says. He’s too generous with Magnus; he always is.

“Well, you know what they say, the road to hell and all--”

“It’s paved with good intentions,” Alec finishes.

  
\---

  
A week later finds them on another bus, this one significantly smaller than the last.

“What, are we running low on campaign funds?” Magnus asks. Far be it from him to get high and mighty about what’s essentially a school bus for grownups, but where’s he going to microwave his fish tacos? He and Izzy have an ongoing bet over who can bring the smelliest food in.

“No,” Alec says. “It just seems silly to waste that much money on a bus we’re only going to spend the day on.”

“I guess.” Magnus kind of agrees, but he’ll miss that espresso maker.

He sits back in the little swivel chair and does a small spin as the bus pulls out. Alec’s behind him this time, talking quietly with his mother. Alec had invited him to sit with them but to be perfectly honest, Magnus would rather get stuck in a bear trap, be forced to gnaw his own leg off, then use his remaining good leg to hop his way down the side of a mountain to safety. He did manage to settle on a polite, “no, thanks,” though.

Izzy leans close to talk with him about the next four stops, but Magnus is barely listening. He can feel Alec’s eyes on him the whole way, burning into the back of his skull.

After the third venue, a veteran’s hospital, Alec motions the driver to stop. Magnus takes the opportunity to use the restroom and as he’s washing his hands, the door opens behind him and Alec slips in. The lock clicks behind him, echoing in the small room.

“I think I recently read a news article about an arrest that started just like this,” Magnus says, turning.

Alec looks around the room with a slow, exaggerated sweep of his eyes. “I don’t see any cops.”

“That’s a pretty low bar for a sexual encounter.”

“How presumptuous of you,” Alec says and crosses the room. He leans down, kisses Magnus, greedy and deep. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“I noticed,” Magnus says between kisses. “You’re a little, ah, intense.” He tilts his head back to give Alec better access to his neck, feels Alec’s hot mouth sucking stinging bruises against his skin.

“Hope you have an extra ascot,” Alec says, not sounding sorry at all, edging Magnus back against the counter.

“It's like you don't even know me.”

It’s a universal truth that all public restrooms counters are mysteriously wet, and Magnus’ pants are getting absolutely soaked from the vile puddle of cold water on the sink, but he doesn’t care. His world narrows to Alec on his knees, unzipping his pants and kissing the tip of his cock before swallowing him down. He gags a little, pulls off, then takes it slower. Magnus leans back and runs his hands through Alec’s hair, over his broad shoulders wedged between Magnus' shaking thighs, pressing them further them apart.

The faucet’s dripping, they’ve been gone suspiciously long, and everyone must be wondering where they are. Magnus thinks about the next stop they have to make, the hot insistent heat of Alec’s mouth while Alec’s hand creeps back, thumb pressing against his ass, and then he’s not thinking at all.

  
\---

  
Alec washes his hands quickly while the unflattering fluorescent light flickers overhead. He has a smear at the corner of his lips. Magnus takes his finger and wipes it away. Alec meets his eyes in the mirror, a sardonic twist to his mouth.

Alec likes to kiss after blowjobs, tongue insistently pushing the taste of himself back into his mouth. It’s a surprisingly filthy kink, but Alec just seems to be full of them. A couple days ago, he fucked Alec across his desk, naked, toes curling, while Magnus wore a full three-piece suit with nothing but his cock out. He'd kept his hand clapped over Alec’s mouth to keep him quiet. It was deliciously slutty and all Alec's idea.

“Please never get arrested for solicitation in a public restroom,” Magnus says. “I don’t know how I’d spin that.”

“Just you,” Alec says and pulls a paper towel out of the dispenser. Of course, ten more drop out and hit the floor.

 It’s not like Magnus expects exclusivity. They can both fuck whoever they want. They aren’t teenagers going steady; he’s not going to have Alec start wearing his letterman jacket, but it’s nice--the thought that Alec only wants to be with him. And, well. It’s _nice_. He tries not to think about it too much.

Magnus takes up Alec’s vacated spot and washes his hands again. Behind him, Alec says. “Guess it’s our little secret.”

Magnus grimaces. “Nothing stays hidden forever. If it did, I wouldn't have such a lucrative job."

As Alec’s running his hands through his hair, trying to get it back into some semblance of order, he looks over to where Magnus is drying his hands and casually says, “Huh, you’re wearing the same nail polish my mother is.”

Magnus looks down at his hands in horror.

  
\---

  
They pull up at the last stop, brakes screeching to a halt with an ear-piercing metallic whine. Next to him, Izzy’s eyes dart between him and Alec, long red nails tapping against the foldaway desk.

“You sure this is a good idea?” she asks him, voice low. She could be inquiring about anything, his shoes, the particularly loud patterned fuchsia ascot he chose just because Alec once said it made his eyeballs feel like they were vibrating, or the stocks he just bought in Apple, but she’s not. They both know she’s not.

“No,” Magnus says honestly. It’s an awful idea but apparently, Alec need only wave his knobby knees in Magnus’ direction, and he comes running. He’s learning all kinds of new and shameful things about himself.

She nods once and then sits back, looking troubled. She’s fascinating all on her own -- a beautiful forensic pathologist taking a leave of absence to volunteer her time to Alec’s campaign. In a shocking show of solidarity, his whole family’s done that. It would be heartwarming if most of his family wasn’t so terrifying.

Outside the bus, photographers are waiting for them to disembark, and when they do, they snap their pictures in a blinding flurry of light. Alec, wearing dark gray slacks and a matching vest, turns back and grins at Magnus, who mouths a silent “hey” at him.

Alec waits for him, so the photographers can get them both, right next to each other. Magnus hesitates a moment, no one ever wants him in the official photos. "Come on," Alec says, grabbing his arm. Izzy stands on Alec's other side, and Maryse gets put next to Magnus. She makes a face and looks distinctly unimpressed.

During Alec's short speech, Izzy adjusts Magnus' shirt collar with a knowing look.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing.

 

\---

 

The photos get uploaded to the campaign website, the NYT runs the story, and life goes on. Magnus is walking into the office on Monday, sipping coffee, his coat slung over one arm and reading the headlines when his phone rings.

“Did you see your young Mayor trending on the Twitters?”

“Alexander is very popular with the millennials.”

“Did you happen to notice the hashtag?”

Magnus takes another drink of his coffee and waits for his laptop to boot up. He checks his Twitter feed and notices #Malec. What the ever loving fuck -- oh God.

No, can’t be. There are actual fan clubs dedicated to the two of them. There are candids of them smiling at each other, standing side by side, Alec half listening to Magnus rant about how offensive he finds deviled eggs, and Alec grinning, mouth half covered by his palm. In every photograph, they look like boyfriends.

More than boyfriends; they look like they’re in love. Magnus sits in his chair, his phone tumbling from numb fingers. From the floor, Ragnor’s tinny voice comes, “I tried to warn you.”

But Magnus isn’t listening. He’s thinking of Alec on his knees in a shitty bathroom and pressing a finger into the corner of those glorious lips, telling Alec that nothing stays hidden forever.

   
\----

  
What follows is a long, hideous day obsessively tracking Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and Snapchat. He even checks Pinterest. It doesn’t give him any more insight, but he does learn how to make cupcakes that look like squirrels.

They had plans to meet up at a hotel later outside of Yonkers to avoid any press or nosy doormen at either of their apartments. He rechecks Alec’s itinerary and notes that Alec’s going to be tied up in meetings all day. He sits, holed in his tiny office, biting the polish off his nails and wondering how he missed this. Expecting the unexpected is what he _does_  and back before he met Alec, he used to be the best at his job. But Alec makes him sloppy, emotional. He can't see a way out because all he can see is Alec.

Across from him, the clock ticks, marking down the hours. He's a fixer; he can certainly fix this. He can save his both of their careers.

On his way to the hotel, Magnus swings by a newsstand and grabs the NYT. On the second page, at the very bottom, is a small photo of the two of them. Magnus remembers the exact moment the picture was taken. Alec was turned back, saying something to Magnus.

Alec’s only visible in profile, but Magnus -- Magnus is splayed wide-open, heart in his eyes for all to see.

It’s so, so damning.

 

\---

  
He stops by the front desk and gets the room key.

In the room, Alec is waiting for him, stretched out on the bed. Magnus watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. A flickering pink sign announcing vacancies pours into the window, outlining Alec in splashes of light. He looks unearthly dressed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, heartbreaking, like David etched in lurid neon. They both deserve better.

He had broken the law for Camille, had nearly wrecked his career and her life. And at the end of the whole mess, she cut him a check like it was just another job. He just never fucking learns, does he? Nothing good can come from this. 

Alec blinks sleepily up at Magnus. “Hey, I was waiting for you.”

Magnus could honestly cry, and he hates Alec a little for bringing him to this point, this place where he’s rediscovering a part of himself that he thought he’d burned away years ago. “What are we doing?”

“Let me show you,” Alec says with sly grin and Magnus can see his teeth in the low light, a quick flash of white. He reaches up for Magnus to pull him down into a kiss, but he dodges his hand.

Alec looks momentarily hurt, then concerned, always so fucking concerned. Politics is a real shitty career choice for him. “Did something happen?” Alec asks.

No, yes, everything, Magnus wants to say. I think I fell in love with you and this can only end badly. He swallows. “We should probably stop this before it gets too dangerous.”

“Stop this?” Alec asks, face going ashen.

“We both have too much to lose,” Magnus says, knowing he’s being too blasé, hurting himself and Alec but unable to stop. Best for a clean break, no regrets. He goes in for the kill: "Besides, it isn't like it's serious or anything.”

“Or anything,” Alec repeats, voice catching and breaking on the last word. He pulls the blanket up around himself.

Magnus stands and wipes his sweaty hands on his slacks. He turns to go but stops when Alec says, “Do you believe in anything, Magnus?”

“I believe in myself,” Magnus says.

“Right,” Alec says bitterly. “I forgot. You don’t need anyone.”

Maybe Alec has the luxury of forgetting, but Magnus doesn't. He remembers the last thing Camille said to him so many years ago while slipping a folded check into his pocket: You can have ambition or love, but you can’t have both.

 

 


	4. 在何處投票

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I turned out to be kind of a crappy person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and all of the kind kudos and comments. you're the best!!! do stop by [my tumblr to say hi!](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/unrestrainedlyexcessive)

 

 

He hides out in a hotel room under an assumed name. For the first seventy-two hours, he day drinks and eats enough preservatives that at the end of the world, it’ll be him and the cockroaches and Cher.

Alec calls four times the first day, texts just as often, and Magnus lets them all go unanswered, afraid of what he’ll do if he lets himself speak with Alec. Probably something mortifying with tears and Celine Dion lyrics. Alec tries two more times the third day until eventually, he stops altogether. Magnus is both devastated and relieved.

His phone rings and Magnus springs across the room to check the caller ID. It's Catarina and Magnus shoves down the welling disappointment and answers.

“What are you up to?” she asks.

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? I was just checking up on you since you haven’t called recently.”

So he hasn’t been officially fired, good to know. Catarina reads the press releases religiously.

He’d met her in college, back when they were both younger and idealistic. After graduating, Magnus went to the press corps and Catarina began a tumultuous affair with non-profits. Catarina had gone on to do beautiful and meaningful work with the Center for Law and Social Policy, developed legislation and advocated for low-income people, created paths towards jobs and education.

And what has Magnus done? Mostly extorted people, with a side of petty theft and perjury. They’d started out on the same path and yet, somehow, Catarina had changed the world. Magnus had really only succeeded in changing himself.

“Things could be better,” Magnus acknowledges.

“Do I need to come to New York?” she immediately asks.

“No, stay. What you do is important.”

“So are you,” she says impatiently.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got my good friends Jack, Johnny, and Jose to keep me company.” He pauses. “Also my good friend Twinkie.”

“That last one didn’t work as well. It was really clever until then.”

“I know,” he says sadly. “I’ll be okay.” And he will, eventually. He thinks it’s kind of awful how okay he’ll be. Just as soon as he can sober up, put some pants on, and stop giving Little Debbie a stock bump.

“You’ll call if things get worse? Or if you’re in real trouble?”

He promises, and they both hang up.

He spends the rest of the day mechanically eating Ding Dongs, his mind a screaming void. He idly flips through the TV stations when Alec’s face jumps out at him. He’s standing at a podium, answering questions. Beneath his image, the headline “Mayoral Hopeful Alec Lightwood Comes Out As Gay” scrolls across the bottom in harsh lettering. Alec’s face is pale in the spotlight, his body tense. Behind him, stands Izzy and his mother as a show of support.

All the food and booze Magnus consumed in the last three days threatens to make a reappearance. Alec looks tired, unhappy, young, and so very alone.

Magnus is meant to be there with Alec, to plan a rollout and anticipate the backlash. Instead, he’s sucking down food from a box in a hotel room like a fucking coward.

On the screen, Alec leaves the stage, reporters yelling out additional questions, and Maryse steps forward to touch the back of his arm. It’s the softest he’s ever seen her look and it’s not for the cameras, which are already panning away. It’s another thing he’s overlooked, couldn’t see for being right in front of him. She has high expectations, is much too hard on him, but Alec’s mother loves him.

He’s always believed in love; it's hard not to. It’s neurons firing, electrical impulses, oxytocin flooding the system. He can break it down, understand the physicality of it, but he’s never been able to understand it, not really. He’d always supposed that kind of love, the kind that you give other people and they return, is simply beyond him. A thing for other people.

So why then, does he feel like his heart is breaking?

 

\---

 

On the sixth day, there’s a knock on his door.

“I hope you’re wearing something under that,” Ragnor says.

“I am not,” Magnus confirms, looking down at his stained complimentary hotel robe.

“How unfortunate. For the robe.”

“How did you find me?” Magnus asks, exasperated.

“You’re not nearly as circumspect as you seem to think you are. I mostly asked about a shady fellow with too much makeup. Admittedly, I was surprised at how many fit the description here. I despise New York.”

“I think I might have done something terrible,” Magnus mumbles, letting Ragnor in the room.

“Probably,” Ragnor says thoughtfully.

Magnus glares at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Why are you even here.”

“Because, as I’ve been trying to tell you for the past ten years, I am your friend.”

“For the last time,” Magnus says, and then stops. Shit. Who has been to see him? No one? He realizes that Ragnor is probably his best friend, and that is just too sad for words. Ragnor hates him and it’s been deeply, deeply mutual since he and Catarina went on two disastrous dates in college, decided to just be friends, and Magnus vowed to hate him ever since. In retrospect, it might have been a little childish.

“I’m doing fine,” Magnus says. “So you can report back to Catarina that I’m great.”

Ragnor eyes the trash littering the floor, Magnus’ general state of unwash. “I can see that,” he says evenly.

Magnus turns his music back on, listens to Celine Dion warble about how she doesn’t want to be all by herself. He agrees. Oh fuck, he agrees. He also would like to not be all by himself.

“So, who broke your heart this time?”

“Who said anything about a broken heart?”

“No one gets this sad otherwise.”

Magnus opens his mouth to answer, but can’t.

Who broke his heart? Camille, no one, everyone. The world, maybe.

He remembers being twenty-two and fresh out of school, hungry to make his mark. He remembers the casual racism, the low thrum of bigotry; he was too flashy, a little too everything. So for a while, he tried to fit in, stopped wearing makeup, brushed his hair down and gelled it in place. And still, it wasn’t enough. When he did manage to get exclusives, he found dirty politician after dirty politician, none of them out to serve anyone but themselves. It wasn’t just the death of the American Dream he’d witnessed, but the death of his particular dream. Then he met Camille. With every shady action, every new lie he told, he was contributing to the slow crumbling demise of something intrinsic within himself.

Ragnor grabs him by the arm and starts dragging him in the direction of the ensuite. “What are you doing?” Magnus squawks.

“I’m not letting to stew in your own juices as you pine over some boy.”

“I'm not pining,” Magnus says. “That thing with Alec -- it was just fun that got out of hand. No big deal. I can‘t be hurt. You have to care for that, and I stopped _years_ ago. I'm invulnerable.” It would probably be more convincing if he didn't hiccup over that last bit.

“Oh, my friend,” Ragnor says softly, “you’re the most vulnerable person I know.” Then he hurtles Magnus into the shower, robe and all, and turns the water on.

“You bastard,” Magnus cries weakly. He’s shivering under the water, beating at the wall, and then he’s just crying.

“Let it out,” Ragnor says, crouching low outside the shower. “There’s a good lad.”

Eventually, Magnus wipes his nose and tilts his face up to the spray. “I’m fine,” he insists like this was all his idea to take a cold shower in a ratty bathrobe in the first place. “I just want to clean off. You should probably leave, I plan to be naked for this.”

“You’re not going to drown yourself if I go?”

“The only thing I’m in danger of drowning in is self-pity,” Magnus mumbles.

He waits for Ragnor to close the door behind him, then stands up and slips off his robe, dropping it into the corner of the shower. He uses the little complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, rubs his body down, scrubbing off the filth and letting it wash away. Scientists say that you're constantly shedding skin and every 48 days, you get a brand spankin' new epidermis, but Magnus would say it takes much longer. It may take a few years or even a lifetime. He seems to reinvent himself every decade or so like Madonna. He'll probably go through a cowboy phase, too. 

It is easy, perhaps, to hope for the perfect circumstances. In lieu of that, maybe the best course of action is to get off his ass and keep going.

Finished, he turns the water off, and steps out of the shower, grabs one of the fluffy towels, dries off, and wraps it around his waist.

When he leaves the bathroom, Ragnor is sitting in a chair, helping himself to Magnus’ $18 peanuts.

“Such a mess,” Ragnor says fondly, slips into the bathroom and emerges a few seconds later with another towel. He sits Magnus down on the bed and dries off his hair until it’s sitting in an untidy pile atop his head. “Catarina should be here doing this,” he mutters.

“You’re doing okay,” Magnus says. He grabs his wrist. “Thank you,” he says, meeting Ragnor’s eyes.

Ragnor clears his throat. “Yes, well. Someone has to do it.”

“Do you want to know who broke my heart?”

“Oh, are we still on that? I thought you were quite done. Sure, go ahead.”

“I figured it out in the shower.“

“The shower is a great font of wisdom and water pressure.” Ragnor folds the towel and sets it on the table.

“Me,” Magnus says, finally. “I did.”

Ragnor sits down next to him on the bed, looking thoughtful. “Then only you can fix it. Should be easy for you. After all, it’s kind of your job.”

Magnus looks down at his hands, palms up. “I don’t think I can fix this. I don’t know if he’ll take me back.”

“Good God, man," Ragnor says, looking incredulous. "You actually care about him.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying this whole time!”

“Yeah, but I just thought it was how you’d like a particularly nice bum.”

Magnus swears at him. “I hate you.”

“Uh huh. Well, I can help you, I suppose. Do you remember the shocking photos of the Representative I sent you a few months ago?”

Magnus shudders a little. “Hard to forget.”

“The date, did you even look at the date?”

“Yeah, it was taken years ago. He’s not even in Congress anymore.”

“No, he isn’t. Probably because his wife has political aspirations.”

“His wife?” Magnus nearly falls off the bed. Of course, his wife does. After all, what better way is there to start than high profile Mayorship like New York? She’s running against Alec. Ragnor gave him the election months ago, practically handed it to him on a silver fucking platter, and Magnus was too distracted to see it. No wonder Ragnor had been so sure Alec would win.

He owes Ragnor a fuckton more than champagne. Magnus can never have children, no doubt Ragnor will demand them in payment.

“I could kiss you.”

“Perhaps you would consider getting dressed instead? Your towel has shifted, and you’ve been flashing me for the last fifteen minutes.” Ragnor opens another can of peanuts.

  
\---

   
He buys a pack of Marlboro Reds from a vendor, takes them up his hotel room and cracks the window open, slots himself between the narrow opening and lights up. He stares down at the orange tip for a moment, then stubs it out in a crystal glass. He’s got a lot of bad habits to break.

He peels himself away from the window and goes to comb his hair and put his face on. He throws away the majority of the food wrappers to hide some of his secret shame.

For better or worse, he’s still Alec’s fixer. It's time to get back to work.

The hotel concierge service brings him a phone charger; it’s the least they can do after he subsisted for a week on room service and the overpriced contents of the minifridge.

Unable to let go of his niggling suspicion, he calls Ragnor. “How did you really find me?”

He doesn’t expect Ragnor to answer, but he says, “Clarissa told me.”

“Clary? The dope that put the plastic plant in my office?”

“She’s on my payroll. The plant is bugged,” Ragnor says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Who’s the dope now?”

 

\---

 

He gets the file in California overnighted to his room and makes a few phone calls to set up an appointment with Theresa Thompson.

She doesn’t want him to be officially on the books in any capacity, so she arranges a meeting for them in the park at night. It’s all a bit too cloak and dagger for his tastes, but he chooses an outfit that looks appropriately shady. In his small leather travel case, he goes to grab a set of matching cufflinks but finds the tie clip he last remembers putting on Alec, with Alec breathing on him, hushed and sweet. Alec must have slipped it in the case when he wasn’t looking. He turns the gold clip over in his hands and then puts it on.

He flips through the photos one last time a bit regretfully. He doesn’t like the idea of holding a wife accountable for her husband’s sins, but he’ll do what he has to. Afterall, Magnus has made a career of compromising himself while getting other people out of their habit of doing the same. What’s a little more damage to himself if it’s for Alexander?

Thompson's waiting in the park for him when he arrives. About twenty feet away, Magnus sees dark shapes circling. Must be bodyguards, which means she’s nervous.

She takes the offered envelope and slips the photos out. She looks unsurprised, which means she already knew. Magnus had wondered if he was on his way to break up a happy marriage, but he shouldn’t have. Very few marriages in Washington are for anything other than profile and cooperation.

“How much do you want?” she asks, brushing her frosty blonde hair over her shoulder. She tucks the photos away, as if unable to look at them any longer, and hands them back.

“Nothing,” Magnus says. “Drop out of the race.”

“Come off it, Bane, everyone knows you can be bought.”

“Not today,” Magnus says.

“So you’re going to ruin my career.” To her immense credit, she says it with dry eyes, chin held high.

He takes a step forward, standing under the street lamp when a gold glint catches his eye. He looks down at his tie clip, and thinks of Alec drinking awful coffee with sprinkles, squinting up at the sky, and asking him, “Where’s your faith, Magnus?” Alec, outlined in neon, asking if Magnus has ever believed in anything.

Magnus has been ruined, utterly destroyed, and lost all faith. But maybe instead of sinking to their level, he should have risen above.

“No,” Magnus says and hands her both copies. “This is it. There are no others.”

She takes the envelope suspiciously. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because Alexander would want me to,” Magnus says. “You should remember that the next time you’re on Fox & Friends bashing him.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“Sure it is,” Magnus says, “but it shouldn’t be. It should be about what’s best for the people, the people you promised to serve. We’ve all lost sight of that.”

“So you’re going to change politics and world?” she asks sardonically. She's a tough woman; anyone who stays in politics too long always is. 

“Probably not,” Magnus says and wraps his coat tighter around himself, “but I can change myself, and I believe in someone who can do the rest."

  
\---

  
He tracks Alec’s numbers obsessively, watches them sharply decline, then hold steady. The main problem with election day projections and exit polling is that people consistently lie, they change their minds at the last minute, and act against their own best interests. If he's learned nothing else over the years, he's learned this: once you put yourself out there, you have no choice but to take a deep breath and hope people don't disappoint you.

In a shocking turn, Thompson pulls out of the race. This close to the vote, there’s no coming back. She needs time to regroup and revise her strategy, maybe ditch the husband and find a better one. Maybe she’ll go it alone. She’s strong enough. 

She doesn’t trust Magnus at his word that the photos will never see the light of day, but that’s the price paid for being the kind of people they are. You never trust anyone.

He checks out of the hotel, gets the bill and tries not to piss himself a little at the staggering sum. All those peanuts add up. It seems like he’s not done paying quite yet.

  
\---

  
On the third stop of what he’s officially dubbed “Magnus Bane’s Redemption Tour,” he swings by the Campaign Headquarters.

He’s not sure how he’ll be received, or if he even still has a job at all, but when Izzy sees him, she jumps up, kisses him on the cheek and says, “He’s in his office.”

On his way back, he passes Clary, who gives him a wide, sunny grin. Magnus eyes her warily.

The smile drops off her face, and she winks at him before turning away to Xerox fliers.

With one last uneasy glance, he heads toward the back.

Magnus has walked this exact hall hundreds of times now, has memorized the number of steps it takes to get to Alec’s tiny office and yet, when he sees the door open and Alec coming out, he is totally unprepared in every way imaginable.

 Alec stops short, staring. He’s wearing a dark gray suit, slick and polished. He looks expensive and untouchable, and Magnus honestly can’t remember why he ever thought Alec needed to change at all. "Can we talk?"

Alec wordlessly goes back to his office, leaving Magnus the choice to flee or follow.

He makes the right choice this time and follows him.

In his office, Alec is sitting behind his desk. "Thompson dropped out."

"I caught that." He sits down in a chair and crosses his legs, changes his mind and sits still, back straight. It's a bit like he's testifying before the Grand Jury again. He feels the sweat start to gather in his pants.

“I suppose you had something to do with that." He's flipping through a stack of papers, not looking up.

"Maybe, probably. I didn't really mean to?"

For the first time, Magnus has the chance to study him carefully. It’s only been a little over a week, but Alec is wary, brittle, colder. He’d thought Alec needed to get smarter and tougher, but he hadn’t wanted to be the one to make him that way.

“Alexander," he says urgently, "I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry I turned out to be kind of a crappy person.”

“You’re okay. You don't owe me anything." He's still looking down, infuriatingly refusing to look at Magnus. He's saying the right words, but something pings Magnus as _wrong_. Alec is lying, and he's gotten better at it. He's a real politician now.

“I’m really not,” Magnus says. "I'm trying to be better." He drops his careful posture and leans close, nearly ready to beg when he notices the papers Alec is reading are upside down. Hope seizes at his chest. "I've missed you terribly."

Alec looks up then, expression cool. "And what have you missed? Some idiot that made a fool of himself for you? Some easy lay, a real good fuckbuddy that you could ditch as soon as it became inconvenient?"

"No, Alexander--"

“I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I knew whenever you got over being an asshole, you’d come slinking back.” His words and eyes are hard, and Magnus catches a brief glimpse of just how much devastation he left in his wake. It’s a lot to take in; he’s not sure he can repair it, but he knows he wants to try. He _has_ to try.

So he says the only thing he can, the only thing he can offer at this point: true, naked honesty. “Alec, Alexander, I’m so fucking in love with you,” he chokes out, "and it _terrifies_ me."

A muscle in Alec's jaw twitches. "And what happens the next time you get scared?"

He can't promise he won't be frightened by the depth of his feelings again, of course not. His legs are shaking right now. But he can promise he won't lose sight of the most important thing to him -- Alec. Always Alexander. And that's what he tells Alec, haltingly and fumbling over words, unsure of himself like he hasn't been in ages. He feels foolish and wrong-footed, like he's scrabbling up the side of a hill made of quicksand, sinking and fighting for air.

Alec sits back and considers him carefully.

“Okay,” Alec says, quietly, almost to himself. “Can you do this, out in the open, for real?”

“Yes, yes,” Magnus says a little impatiently. “Will you take me back?”

“I can live without you,” Alec says a little severely, but his eyes, they're lighter now, a bit warmer and infinitely softer. “You taught me that.”

“You'll never know how sorry I am."

“But I don’t think I want to.”

It feels a little like how Magnus imagines it must be to have the ice crack beneath you and plunge into the shocking water in the depths of winter, only for a hand to grab you and drag you to safety at the last minute.  It feels like relief, forgiveness. He crosses the room and circles the desk, grabs Alec by the tie - unclipped, as always, Alec needs him desperately - and pulls him into a searing kiss.

It feels like love.

 

\---

 

Magnus notices a small plastic plant on the corner of Alec's desk and decides to clear out.

"We should definitely get out of here."

 Alec looks at him like he's crazy as he's pulling his coat on. “I wanted to stop by some of the campaign sites today, anyway. Thank them for all the hours they put in for me.”

“Is your mother or Izzy going?"

“Everyone’s staying here; there's too much to do. I was going to do this part alone.”

Magnus thinks of Alec standing front and center of a press conference, announcing his sexuality and looking apologetic, and vows to himself Alec won't ever be alone again. He just has to convince Alec of that, but it's going to take time and persistence. While he has Alec's love, suspects he always will, he's not sure how far Alec trusts him. It took him months to gain it and only a couple weeks to nearly lose it all, but he's going to start now.

“You shouldn’t have to," he says, touching Alec's hand.

“I’m okay with it,” Alec insists.

“Still. You shouldn’t have to.”

 

\---

 

They take a cab to the next volunteer center, cropped up in a dozen places around the city. “So, this one is mostly seniors. You're going to have to yell to be heard.”

"Alexander, I have something to confess." Magnus realizes he's fidgeting and forces himself to stop.

"What else could you possibly have done?" Alec asks, exasperated.

Magnus says, “I have a tragic weakness for your gamine stems.”

“I hate everything about the way you’ve phrased that, but I accept the compliment, I guess. Is that all you’ve missed?”

“Your fabulous ass.”

“You’ve missed the bottom half of me, got it.”

“You’re eyes -- they’re not bad. I suppose your lips are serviceable.”

“Be prepared to catch me, I may swoon,” Alec says.

“And have you missed me?”

“I wasn’t the one ducking your calls for nearly two weeks.”

“Ouch. Right, got it.” Magnus hangs his head a bit.

Alec blows out a hard breath. “I haven’t been able to find my keys since you've been gone.”

“I had extra copies made and left them in the locked drawer of your desk,” Magnus says. “Bottom right.”

“Izzy and my mom put me on some kind of superfood diet. I mostly eat pomegranates and kale now.” He sounds so sad.

“That’s awful,” Magnus says, commiserating. “I do sympathize, but Alexander--”

The cabbie announces their stop. The meter’s running, this is going to cost him a fortune, but it’s worth it. Alec always is.

“I have one more request.”

“What?” Alec asks, unflatteringly suspicious.

Magnus leans close and whispers, “May I see your knees?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alec yells. "I'm not going to let you _fondle_ my knees in public."

“I’m a weak man,” Magnus says in a rush. He’s trying to be a better person, but there’s only so much he can improve in the span of a month.

“Oh, _Jesus_ , okay. Later,” Alec says and opens the door, but he’s laughing, a real smile like Magnus hasn’t seen in ages. On their way in, he holds out his hand for Magnus to take.

 

\---

 

Before he knows it, it's election day.

“C’mon, we might as well watch the results together.” Alec sounds sort of lost, hopeless. Alec’s a little too tall, too liberal, too young, too gay to be mayor now, but Magnus has faith. New Yorkers are obstinate by nature; they live to curse, eat bagels and schmear, and buck the status quo. Besides, he's the last major candidate standing. It's either him or the guy from the Green Party that doesn't believe in vaccinations and wants to instill a complicated goat bartering system instead of paper currency.

“You may not want to be seen with me,” Magnus tells him. “I’m kind of politically toxic right now.” Whispers have followed him since Thompson's abrupt departure. Some say he has mob ties; others say he's some kind of he-witch.

“Yeah, well, I’m not doing great either. We can cling together and form a liferaft.”

“Where would we go?”

“Jersey,” Alec says immediately.

“Why would that be--never mind. I suspect I wouldn’t do well there,” Magnus says glumly.

“We can both get fades, eat a bunch of hot dogs, get fat and tan on the Jersey Shore.”

“With matching tattoos?”

“Back pieces for sure. I’ll get your name inked around a sleeping tiger.”

“That’s alarmingly specific,” Magnus says, warming to the idea. Even in an absurd prospective future, Alec can’t help but insert Magnus into it. It sounds great, but he’s beginning to suspect it’s because it is Alec’s idea and people just have a habit of following Alec. He knows he does. And he thinks New York City will, too.

But just in case they don’t, they always have the Jersey Shore.

“It’s a date,” Alec says, grinning slightly.

 

\---

 

They've rented an auditorium. It feels more a Yankees World Series game than an election. 

“I think this is why I fell in love with politics,” Alec says. He's backstage, yelling over the crowd. “I love the feeling of mankind being at my fingertips. All of these things that made me sad about the world -- I could change them if I wanted. Maybe I couldn’t make life better for myself, but I could make life better for other people -- that feeling of possibility, that anything could happen if I wanted it hard enough.”

“And has it?” Magnus can’t help but think of all the things Alec has denied himself and wonder if it was worth it.

“I wanted you.”

“You have me,” Magnus says, yelling to be heard over the noise. The numbers are coming in fast and furious, but it’s still not enough to call it.

The excitement, the feeling of standing right on the cusp of change: these are the reasons Magnus got into politics, too. He lets the excitement seep into his bones, reverberate through his body, and feels so much hope, he can barely contain it.

He’s a scoundrel, an absolute mess, and all manner of unsuitable for the man beside him. Doesn’t matter if Alec’s the mayor, they move to Jersey and get matching back tats, or retire to Palm Springs and live out the rest of their days arguing about which SPF to buy. Magnus wants it, wants him, wants every last bit of this life with Alexander.

He may not always be good for Alec, but he can be good to him. And he can be good to himself. Magnus thinks that’s all anyone can reasonably strive for.

He slips his hand into Alec’s as they take the stage to watch the numbers roll in.

 

 

 


	5. নির্বাচনের দিন ভোটদান

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if anyone is subscribed to this or any of my stories and gets a notification! this is just me futzing around and editing this fic. i'm going to be doing this with a few of my stories over the next couple of days. someone told me the epilogue would read better separated and i agree. again, apologies!

EPILOGUE:

 

 

 

The jabronis like to complain about their supermodel homosexual mayor and his lovely first lady with the bulging biceps, but by any measurement, Alec is ridiculously popular. The unreliable voters, the millennials, the immigrants, the so-called welfare queens turned out in historical numbers to vote. Alec fought for them, so they returned the favor.

The thing is, the thing all the top wealthy elite forget, New York doesn't belong to them. New York belongs to the working class; they built the skyline, the sidewalks, they cook the food, and deliver the goods. The city is an amalgam and all the better for it.

New York is proud of Alexander and so is Magnus.

Magnus has been planning Alexander’s run for President for the past three months. It was a small idea that's grown over the last year while watching Alec work with constituents, make deals, and keep his promises. He's not been perfect, no man ever is, but he cares deeply. Men of honor are in short supply these days. 

He's sitting in bed, going over both of their itineraries for the next day when he lets it slip that he's meeting with a potential campaign manager. "Not that you're campaigning for anything," Magnus says hastily.

Alec puts his book down, face first, cracking the spine loudly, and Magnus tries not to grimace. “I know all about it.”

“How? Have you been spying on me?”

“You talk in your sleep," Alec says, unattractively smug. He's wearing a stained light gray t-shirt with worn black boxers, hair rumpled. He looks like himself -- fabulous, perfect.

“Do I say anything too incriminating?” Magnus asks, a little worried. It's not that he minds sharing all his secrets with Alec, he just finds it's best to do it one at a time and when Alec's in a good mood. He's still a little dodgy and probably always will be, but he uses his powers for good now, sort of.

“Mostly you talk about fish tacos? Which is concerning enough and sort of uncomfortably sexual, but about twelve weeks ago you started to hum 'Hail to the Chief.' It wasn’t a huge leap to make.”

“You should run for President.”

“You just want to redecorate the White House.” 

That’s not strictly true, though it’s not like Magnus would say _no_.  "I think you're what the world needs."

"You have an awful lot of faith in me."

"I do," Magnus says honestly. 

"Did you forget?" Alec asks, looking amused, "I'm way too young right now."

"I'm playing the long game," he promises, a gentle reminder that through boring speeches, kissing ugly babies, and inevitable scandal, he's here for him. Always.

Alec blinks at him rapidly, then clears his throat. "I see. Yes, well, your nefarious plan to conquer the world can wait until morning." He moves his book to the nightstand, leans over and turns off the bedside lamp. "Now, we sleep."

Magnus puts his itineraries to the side and nearly turns off his lamp, then thinks better of it. "You really want to sleep?"

"You have something else in mind?"

Magnus strokes a hand up Alec's bare thigh and shivers.

"You're the worst," Alec says, falling back and laughing. 

"Just give me fifteen minutes with them, and I'll be ready," Magnus promises with a leer. "Leave the light on."

"You can have as long as you want," Alec says and pulls Magnus down on top of him.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
